


Old Lovers in Dressing Rooms

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Based on a Keaton Henson song, Bittersweet, F/M, First Love, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I Made Myself Cry, Musician Jon, Past Relationship(s), Post-Break Up, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23635903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: When she sees the posters for his performance plastered all over town, Sansa knows she should stay away.She doesn’t.Old wounds are re-opened as she listens to her first love sing their story, a relationship that was too intense to survive, leading to an achingly frank conversation in his dressing room after dark.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 13
Kudos: 121





	Old Lovers in Dressing Rooms

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by Old Lovers in Dressing Rooms by Keaton Henson - I listened to it on repeat all day writing this, it's such an achingly haunting, beautiful song. I highly recommend listening before/at the same time as reading:) Enjoy... if that's the right word!

The first thing Sansa thinks when she sees him is he looks so _young._

It must have been ten years. Ten years since she climbed into a cab and watched his reflection disappear, growing smaller and smaller until it melted on the horizon. She had barely been able to see through her tears and she hadn’t stopped crying until she reached LA.

She gingerly touches her fingertips to her cheeks and realises she’s crying again. It almost makes her laugh.

The bar is dark, heady with smoke and decorated in delicate fairy lights, and it frames him and his guitar in a soft light. She takes a step, drawn like a magnet, and slowly sits down at one of the free tables. She shouldn’t have come, but she kept seeing the posters for his performance peppered around town like an omen, and she just had to. If only to see him one more time.

The town had been buzzing for months about his arrival. She heard her colleagues talking about it, chatting excitedly by the water cooler. She heard his low brogue, a tone like honey, through the radio on her morning commute. She remembered how that voice sounded in her ear, whispering to her in the dark when no-one could see. 

To everyone else, he’s Jon Snow, the allusive, talented musician coming home after rocketing to fame.

To her, he’s the boy who used to ride up and down her street on his bike and throw stones at her window. The boy who carried Rickon around on his shoulders, and loved Robb like a brother, and taught her about love and sex and _life._

Just a man.

Just Jon. 

He has a beard now, framing a jaw that’s sharp and square, and his eyes are still dark and expressive. There’s a new scar brandishing his handsome face and she has scars of her own, less visible but painful all the same. She watches the delicate strum of his fingers as he plays his guitar, looks at his hands and remembers what they felt like on her body, and he’s so in control, he _commands_ attention — but she remembers what he was like when he was awkward and lanky and seventeen. She’ll always remember him that way. 

He looks so different, and yet so much the same.

He finishes a song and moves seamlessly into the next, the audience hanging onto his every note. She starts to focus on his lyrics then, listens to him weave a song about first love and a girl with fire in her hair. Her stomach twists painfully as she realises he’s singing about her – about them – and it feels like his voice has reached into her chest, winding around her veins and strangling her heart.

His eyes are downcast as he strums his guitar and tells the audience how much he’d wanted her, and how much he’d loved her, and how he’d lost her. She feels her eyes and throat burn, unable to look away. She’s spent so many years wondering if he remembered it the way she did, wondering if she got it right.

He seems less angry than her — but then, she finds it easier to only remember the bad things about Jon.

She sits there quietly, not eating or drinking or even thinking, until he finishes his set. Until she’s got what she came for and it should be time to go.

Still, when she sees Samwell Tarly, his best friend turned manager waiting in the wings, she taps him on the shoulder.

“Hi Sam,” she murmurs, a watery smile pulling at her lips as his eyes widen in shock and he grabs her for a decade-overdue hug.

When she asks to see him, Sam hesitates for only a moment, before he takes her backstage.

She lifts her hand to knock only to drop it again in painful indecision.

He might not want to see her.

He might be tired or he might have a girl in there – she hasn’t read about any wives or girlfriends in any of the magazines, not that she’s kept track, of course – and he might still hate her.

He’d only said that once, spat in the heat of an argument, and she doesn’t think he meant it, but _still_ —

It had stuck.

Her hand hovers in hesitation again. She brushes invisible fluff off her coat and checks her lipstick in the compact she keeps in her purse. It shouldn’t matter — it’s been ten years and there’s a diamond ring on her finger now — but she’s struck by this strange desire for him to think she’s aged as well as he has.

Finally, she takes a breath and rips the band-aid off.

He opens after thirty seconds or so and she watches a myriad of emotions flicker over his face — surprise, confusion, happiness and grief.

“Sansa,” he murmurs and _there it is —_ her name from his lips again. No-one has ever said her name like he does, no-one before, no-one since. He says it like a prayer, and part of her chases that sound every day. She looks for it everywhere.

“Hi Jon,” she whispers back and there’s a flicker of _something_ when he hears his name from her lips, too. He’s frozen for a moment and she wonders if she’s made a mistake, if he’ll slam the door in her face and turn her away, but eventually he opens it wider and gestures for her to come inside.

She’s not sure what to do with her hands as he closes the door and walks over to the little liquor cabinet in the corner of the room. She watches the muscles in his back flex through his black shirt and finally clasps her fingers together.

He’s not saying anything, comfortable with that calm air he always seemed to carry with him, but she’s _burning_.

She can’t stand the silence, so she opens her mouth and spews word vomit.

“I work a few blocks down the street,” she says, clearing her throat and gesturing somewhat wildly, “and I… heard you on the radio, and I saw the posters, and I wanted to see it. I wanted to see you. You look well. Are you well?”

He doesn’t reply, his back still turned to her. The muscles look tighter than before, taut like a bow, and she fights back a wince.

“I’m sorry…” she says after another minute of silence, her cheeks bursting into heat, “this was stupid. I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.”

She takes a step back, ready to rush out the door, feeling utterly humiliated, when his smooth voice stops her in her tracks.

“Do you want a drink?” he murmurs, turning his face to her with his brow slightly arched, “I don’t think there’s any Rosé in here, but I can send out for some?”

She freezes for a moment before she smiles, a little ache in her chest.

“You remember.”

He pours his whiskey – that hasn’t changed either – and turns to face her.

His mouth twitches under his beard, something melancholy and gentle.

“I remember.”

She recognises the words for their unintended depth and the ache in her chest intensifies.

“I’ll take some whiskey too,” she says after a beat and his brow arches again, surprised. He pours her a glass and she tries to ignore how his fingers brush hers when he passes it to her.

She takes a sip, grateful for the burn as it scorches its way down her throat.

She doesn’t take her coat off as she takes a seat on the little couch, balancing the glass on one knee. He drags a chair from the desk and sits opposite her.

“Did you like the show?” he asks eventually, his tone measured and polite.

Part of her hates it, making small talk with him like he’s a stranger, rather than someone who once meant everything to her. She thinks if he asks her about the weather, she’ll scream.

“I loved it,” she answers honestly, “I’m glad things worked out for you. You deserve it, Jon.”

She watches the movement of his throat as he swallows, a sad smile crinkling his eyes. The atmosphere feels thin and tense, both of them thinking the same thing.

It worked out for him, but it didn’t work out for her.

She thinks about all those endless summer nights staring at him with stars in her eyes, completely, _achingly_ in love, as he sang to her and told her he’d be something one day. He’d write dozens of songs for her, call her his muse, make love to her and then write some more. She’d been happy to go along with the ride, and when he promised her forever, she believed him.

But she’d had dreams too. For as long as she can remember, she had dreamt of becoming an actress, and when Hollywood came calling at twenty two, she’d grabbed the opportunity with both hands. They said they’d try the long distance thing, but after a few months, the calls faded and so did the texts, and the gulf between them grew too great.

But now she’s back home in the small town they grew up in, and she’s still not an actress, and they never really said goodbye.

 _Closure,_ she thinks — is that what this is? She wonders if he’s resentful. She wonders if he thinks it was all for nothing, because she ruined them and for what? A dozen TV commercials and a guest spot on an episode here and there, before she had to admit defeat and come home with her tail between her legs.

By then, he was gone.

Maybe he regrets begging her to stay because she left anyway, and if she hadn’t done that, maybe they would still be together.

Maybe he doesn’t feel this way at all and she shouldn’t be harbouring all this guilt — because it wasn’t perfect to start with, and it’s very rarely only one person’s fault.

“You look different,” she says eventually because he’s as quiet and reticent as ever, always reliant on her light to fill the gaps, “is it really you under that beard?”

He huffs a laugh, strokes his chin as if to remind himself it’s there.

“I think so.”

She returns the smile, taking another sip of whiskey.

“Sorry — I know you never liked it.”

She almost spits it out at his words because that’s _really_ not her place anymore, and the reasons _why_ she didn’t like it make her blush. She used to complain that it was scratchy when he kissed her and he would tease her, rub his face against hers like a wolf and kiss the redness away. Heat flares under her skin when she remembers the rashes he would leave in a different place, between her thighs, and how he’d kiss that away too.

“No, it’s—” she struggles with the words, still burning under the memories, “—it’s nice.”

He smiles again but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

As the clock ticks steadily in the corner, they count the years and tell stories and sort of laugh. The minutes go by, blending into an hour, and she starts to relax, the tension unravelling from her body. That was the thing with Jon. He carried that calm energy with him everywhere, always fair and just and kind. That much hasn’t changed.

He asks about Robb, flinches slightly when she asks why he didn’t come to the wedding. He says he was out of the country but he sent roses and she refrains from telling him Jeyne's allergic. He asks if her parents are safe and happy, and if Bran finished college and Rickon got that dog he always wanted. He’s kept somewhat close with Arya, and after two more glasses of whiskey, he admits he asks her sister about her sometimes.

It takes her one more glass, but she admits she asks about him too.

Then, strangely emboldened, she says, “was it really that worth writing about?”

He pauses and she watches his breath hitch in his throat. For a moment, it looks like it hurts to breathe.

It’s dark now, the sun having long set, and moonlight streams in through the arched window. It illuminates half of his face and she thinks he looks soft and pensive and very, very beautiful _._ She’d hoped she’d become immune.

“I think so,” he murmurs, “don’t you?”

She glances down, interlocks her fingers and holds them tightly in her lap.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out, a little choked because she’s waited ten years to say it, “I really ruined things between us. But I just—I had this amazing opportunity and I had to take it and—”

“And you left.”

He finishes the sentence for her, his voice low and quiet, and he doesn’t say it’s okay, but he doesn’t sound angry either.

“Yes, but—”

“And it all worked out,” he interrupts her again, his dark eyes imploring, “we found our way. Sansa, you didn’t _ruin_ anything. You can’t harbour that guilt. We were _kids._ And even before… things weren’t perfect between us, and we tried to fix it a hundred different ways.”

He’s right — he had been so quiet, too sullen and reserved, whereas she had rushed in headfirst, hyper and rash. They had explosive arguments that could move the earth, and they fucked like they fought. They shared an almost animalistic connection, primal and desperate, and they tried so hard, but they were destined to hurt each other.

In his music, he’s written them as a relationship too intense to survive, and Sansa finds herself agreeing.

They were jagged pieces that didn’t quite fit together, but they had one thing in common — they really loved each other.

She had been surprised to hear him sing about her without bitterness, without resentfulness, as though he only remembered the love she gave him. She guesses that’s what happens with relationships. When they end, you’re angry and hurt and you only remember the bad stuff — but then you give it a few months, or a few years, and all the good memories come back and you can kind of live with it.

Maybe she can do that now.

“What we had was real,” he’s speaking again and the words hurt, “it was beautiful and intense and terrifying and there was a time I couldn’t imagine myself with anyone else.”

“But you don’t feel that way anymore?” she whispers, her throat suddenly burning and her vision blurring, an ache spreading throughout her chest.

The smile he gives her is heartbreakingly sad.

“Do you?”

His dark eyes flicker to her hands where she’s absentmindedly twirling her engagement ring around her finger. She hadn’t realised she was doing it; she hadn’t realised he’d noticed she was wearing it.

She stops playing with it.

“No,” she answers honestly.

“Do you love him?”

“I do,” she says – and he doesn’t ask anything else, “we have a house.”

His mouth twitches and he puts his whiskey down.

“I’m happy for you,” he says, soft and genuine, “I have a house too — but I live alone.”

That makes her sad and her chest aches again.

She has more she wants to say, more she wants to apologise for and thank him for, but there’s a sudden knock on his dressing room door.

“Jon, it’s time to go,” Sam’s voice carries through the wood, “there are people here you need to meet.”

Jon drags his eyes back to her and doesn’t look away as he calls that he’ll be out in a minute.

He stands and she stands too, her legs a little shaky.

He doesn’t ask if she still dreams of being an actress, or what she does as a job now. Instead, he gently smiles and says—

“Are you happy?”

And she realises she is. Her face isn’t on the big screen and people don’t scream her name and she counts the pennies day to day – but she’s safe and she’s warm and she’s loved.

“I am,” she whispers, “are you?”

“Not really,” he admits and she suddenly wants to cry, “but I’m getting there.”

She purses her lips, a sob threatening to well in her throat.

It’s silent for a moment, the atmosphere heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

“Can I have your autograph?” she asks eventually and the words leave her mouth in a rush of breath, a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

He pauses for a moment before he laughs and his eyes look a little watery too. 

He glances around the room, looking for something to write on, before he grabs a napkin with the bar’s name branded on it. She reaches into her purse, fumbling a bit before she finds the pen she always carries with her.

She passes it to him and he leans over the desk, about to write, when her voice stops him.

“Jon—” his name flies out of her mouth without her permission and he glances up, one eyebrow arched, “did you really love me like the way you wrote?”

He straightens on an exhale, his hand slowly rubbing his chest.

“I’m afraid so.”

She nods shakily, forcing a smile.

“Okay… because sometimes I drive myself insane wondering if I remember things right. Like, am I lying to myself and did you feel what I felt or am I romanticising things? I just — I really loved you and sometimes I wonder if that was just me.”

He doesn’t reply, something dark and unreadable flickering over his face before his jaw clenches tight.

“I’d like that autograph please,” she half-jokes when he still hasn’t said anything after 10 seconds.

He blinks back into life, nodding and scribbling something on the napkin in his elegant script before placing it in her hand.

She scrunches it slightly as she grips it like it’s something precious.

She doesn’t know what to do then – if they’re at the hugging stage. Eventually, he lets out an indecipherable sound from the back of his throat and pulls her in. His arms are around her for the first time in a decade and the tears finally fall and she grips his black shirt in tight fists.

He places a gentle kiss on her forehead, his mouth lingering for a beat too long, and when he lets her go, her hands ache from the loss.

She turns from him and walks to the door. His voice – _that voice_ – stops her as she is about to turn the handle.

“Sansa…”

She turns.

“When I took this gig…” he starts, “…I was kind of hoping you would come.”

She smiles, something soft and sad.

“I’m glad I did.”

He nods back and she wipes the tears from her flushed cheeks.

She closes the door behind her and waits until she gets outside to read what he's written, the cold night air lashing at her face like a whip.

_Sansa,_

_It was never just you._

_Love always,_

_Jon._

She smiles a watery smile, and holds the message to her chest.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so sorry, this is literally so fucking depressing - i think lockdown has made me even more of an angsty bitch.
> 
> Stay safe my loves <3


End file.
